


The Angel and the Amulet

by Crowgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Continuity What Continuity, Cuddles, Destiel (if you squint), Episode: s05e14 My Bloody Valentine, Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, First Kiss, Fix-It, M/M, Samulet, Spoilers (sorta), The Way It Should Have Gone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Guess that’s not weird either.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Angel and the Amulet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [potteralda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteralda/gifts).



> Please see end notes for spoiler warnings.

Castiel sits on the moss-covered bench, close to the water and far from the footpaths of the park. There’s a long stretch of sunwarmed grass between him and the nearest path. It’s getting dim, the sun setting behind the belt of trees behind him, and the rapid-flowing water is highlighted in gold and bronzey pink. 

He watches the water for a few minutes, then slides the necklace out of his pocket. He weaves the cord around his fingers, careful not even to risk the chance of it slipping from him, and holds the charm up in front of his eyes. 

The bronze color almost matches the color of the water behind it and he thinks, just for a moment, about dropping it in, watching it sink, seeing the cord float out for a minute as the metal drops away into darkness. 

_And then Dean would kill me,_ he thinks and sighs, twisting his hand so the charm falls into the hollow of his palm, protected, safe, even from him. 

It feels warm and unexpectedly heavy but it isn’t magical, it isn’t special, except to Dean, and it isn’t going to help him. 

He tilts his hand and the last rays of sun glint bright off the metal. It’s brighter on one side than the other, having spent years rubbing against leather, cloth, skin-- 

Castiel runs his thumb over the brighter surface, trying to feel if it’s any smoother to the touch. He’s not sure, but he thinks it might be -- just a little. Dean wears it outside of his clothes but Castiel also knows that he almost never takes it off. It brushes against his skin, gets sweaty when he does, gets washed clean when he showers-- Sometimes he twists it between his fingers when he’s thinking and Castiel has noticed him press a hand over it sometimes at night when he’s falling asleep. 

_I should not have taken it._ It had really been a moment of pique that made him do it. He realises now that it had been a particularly human emotion; something he isn’t surprised he hadn’t recognized at the time: taking something precious from Dean in revenge for what Dean had taken from him. Of course, he realises this was a ridiculous urge. Dean had taken nothing; Castiel had _given up_ something. It wasn’t in Dean’s nature to ask people to do things for him.

Castiel closes his fingers over the bronzey mask, keeping it safe in the heel of his hand. 

* * *

Castiel stands against the wall, watching Dean drink, listening to Sam scream.

The bottle of whiskey is nearly half-empty and Dean tilts it back again. Having taken a swallow at Dean’s invitation, Castiel is not sure if he should be impressed or worried.

Dean pushes himself away from the beam he’s leaning on as Sam shrieks, pleads, begs beyond the door of Bobby’s safe room, voice already hoarse and cracking. ‘I’ve got to get some air.’

‘Dean -- it is not him.’

Dean pauses for a second but makes no response and vanishes up the stairs, the liquor catching a stray beam of light as he goes.

Castiel stays where he is, listening to Dean’s footsteps fade. Sam falls silent for a moment, as if he knows his brother is gone. Then his voice rises, wordless agony this time, a plaint against the universe. Castiel presses his hand flat against the door, but the sigils carved in the walls are too strong for him. If he opened the door-- but if he does that, Sam could overpower him easily. 

This is not fair. It is not _right_ that Sam, who had done _nothing,_ who had tried to resist, who had fought until he was tricked, and who even then had struggled to come to _their_ rescue, should suffer.

Castiel presses his palm harder against the wall as if he could somehow reach through it and ease Sam’s pain. If he could, he would, without hesitation.

* * *

When he goes upstairs, Bobby is gone. The dishes from his one-man supper are washed and stacked neatly to dry. Dean had gone straight for the whiskey and Castiel feels no need to look at food for a long, long time.

He knows he cannot hear Sam any more, not up here with the stairs and a solid wooden door separating them, but that doesn’t stop the sounds from echoing in his ears.

* * *

Outside is cold, slightly damp from rain earlier in the afternoon. The dead grass crackles under his feet and he looks up to a sky bright with stars. He lets the blue-white light dazzle his eyes for a moment. It’s beautiful, clean light -- he wishes Sam could see it.

When he blinks and looks back down, he can see the dark bulk of the Impala drawn halfway up an alley of wrecks. He blinks again and can see Dean standing beside the car. The bottle of whiskey is on the roof, ignored for the moment. Dean is looking up at the sky.

Castiel doesn’t mean to sneak up on him but Dean whirls around as though he were being stalked. ‘What the fuck!’

Castiel holds out his hands, meant to be a calming, placating gesture but Dean stiffens further. ‘Dean, I--’

‘Cas...’ Dean shakes his head, swipes the heel of his hand roughly over his eyes, and drags in a deep breath. He almost shakes himself and tries something that’s meant to be a grin. ‘What are you doin’ here?’

It’s a bold effort, one of Dean’s speciality attempts to brazen something out: pretend nothing is happening and nothing is. Castiel has let him get away with it before, thinking perhaps self-preservation was more important than anything to be gained from revelation. But now---

Even through a feeling so intense that it went beyond hunger into a kind of visceral, bone-deep _need_ he had never felt before, he had heard Famine speaking to Dean, the dry voice crackling through silence and he had heard Dean go silent.

‘I wanted to return this to you.’ He holds out the necklace, tilting his hand slightly so the charm catches starlight.

Dean stares at it for a minute and doesn’t move. ‘Jesus...’ His voice is barely a whisper, then he coughs, swipes a hand over his eyes again, and throws back his shoulders. It’s barely a pretence now; Castiel can see his eyes shining, see tracks of dampness on his cheeks, and hear the crack in his voice. ‘Thought you needed it.’ He shrugs, fidgets, shoves his hands into his jeans pockets as though that will hide the trembling.

Castiel shakes his head, undoing the knot at the back of the leather thong. ‘No.’ It breaks his heart a little -- and he thinks now he knows what that means -- to think he took this from Dean. 

Dean stands still as Castiel re-fastens the necklace at his throat, slides the knot to the back of his neck, resettles the charm over his breastbone. He stays still as Castiel lets his fingertips rest, just briefly, on the rise of muscle over his heart and Castiel feels the rough breath he takes before he steps forward and buries his face against Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel embraces Dean as though this was why he had come out in the first place. He can feel Dean’s fingers knotted against the small of his back and hear his uneven breathing. He wants to curl himself around Dean, soak up the hurt, make it _better._

‘I can’t do this...’ Dean’s voice is rough, torn, as if he doesn’t really want to speak. ‘I _can’t_ do this, Cas...’

Castiel flattens his hands against Dean’s back. It’s strange that this feels right -- having Dean against him, close, safe, feels better than almost anything else he can think of. ‘What?’

 _‘This_ \--this-- _any_ of this fucking--!’ Dean steps back and waves his hand at the silent junkyard around them. ‘I just -- I can’t -- I can’t fucking do this any more!’

Castiel looks at him for a minute. He knows what he should say: _you have to, you have no choice, you must._ They aren’t good answers, but they’re the only ones he has and in trying to find something better, he hesitates too long. Dean’s face tightens and he swipes the back of his forearm over his face, tugging his shirt straight and reaching for the bottle of whiskey he’d left on the car’s roof.

‘No, Dean--’ Castiel touches his hand, slides his fingers over his wrist. ‘Please.’

‘You want me to keep going, you let go right the hell now.’ Dean’s voice is tonelessly even and he does not let go. ‘And you get the fuck out of here.’

Castiel keeps his gaze on Dean’s face as, slowly, he eases Dean’s fingers off the bottle.

‘Cas--’ There’s a warning edge in Dean’s voice now and he steps forward, the muscles of his arm tightening.

‘I will be here,’ Castiel says, holding Dean’s hand carefully. 

‘Yeah, well, that ain’t exactly--’ Dean stops himself.

‘I will not leave you alone.’ Slowly, as if Dean might startle and run or, more likely, punch him, Castiel eases his hand up Dean’s arm, drawing him forward until his arm rests around Dean’s shoulders. He couldn’t honestly say this had been his plan when he followed Dean out of the house but, for right now, it seems to be working. He still feels at sea when it comes to knowing this human body but this -- this seems simple. Having his hands on Dean, having Dean where he can feel him breathe, smell his skin -- makes the churn in his chest stop. It may not have been his plan but it seems to be working. Dean is not running or throwing punches; in fact, the tension seems to be easing out of him slowly as he leans back against the side of the car and Castiel together. 

‘Fuck...’ Dean finally sighs out and lets his head drop back against Castiel’s shoulder. 

With a sense of wonder that this could feel so new and so familiar at the same time, Castiel slips his fingers over the short hair at the back of Dean’s neck. There’s a faint stiffness of long-gone gel, but Dean makes a contented sort of hum and settles against him more firmly when he rubs at the base of his skull. 

A few minutes pass in silence before Dean clears his throat and the muscles of his shoulders tighten slightly. He reaches up and scrubs his fingers over his hair; Castiel cannot tell if Dean’s fingers brushing against his own are intentional or not, but he does know the touch is too brief. It spikes warmth through his belly and, without meaning to, he shifts his hand to catch Dean’s, weaving their fingers together. 

‘Jesus, Cas...isn’t...isn’t this a little weird…?’ Dean sounds like he’s trying to make a joke out of it, as if he expects that Castiel will step back and laugh at him.

‘No.’ Castiel settles his arm more firmly around Dean’s shoulders and leans back against the car. Whatever it is, this is not _weird_ \-- at least, not as he understands the word.

He feels Dean nod slowly, but he says nothing. After a few minutes, Castiel feels Dean’s hand slide across his stomach, coming to rest above his belt buckle, a solid, warm weight. He can feel the path of Dean’s palm tingling across his skin, even through the shirt, and it almost makes him have to gasp in breath.

‘So...’ Dean falls silent, then mutters, ‘Oh, well, what the fuck.’ Before Castiel can ask him what he’s talking about, he feels Dean’s fingers on his chin, tilting his head slightly so-- 

‘Oh.’ Castiel’s mouth is tingling.

Dean stares at him from a few inches away, their noses almost touching, the tip of his tongue against his lower lip. ‘Yeah. Oh.’ He studies Castiel’s face for a long minute then settles back down against him. ‘Guess that’s not weird either.’

**Author's Note:**

> Brief fix-it fic for [_Dark Side of the Moon_](http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=5.16_Dark_Side_of_the_Moon) because, brother, it needs one. No pun or other wordplay-based joke intended. Also: continuity is my bitch.
> 
> Slight spoilers for that and [_My Bloody Valentine_](http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=5.14_My_Bloody_Valentine). But since I'm the only person living under an extra-deep, extra-dark rock who hadn't seen those 'til this year, you're probably good. ;)
> 
> And if you got the E. Nesbit joke in the title, have an extra lump of sugar in your next cup.


End file.
